Maddening Affair

I know I locked the door.

She must have found the key I hid.

She pushed with all her might against the door, as I struggled to keep it closed.

I don't know how much time passed, but she made some unexpected gains and soon a gap appeared.

She slid her foot in and caught my ankle, knocking me off balance. I was on my back. I was sliding.

I stood up, dizzied, not knowing how this could have happened.

So I grabbed the knob and twisted it. The door did not budge. But I could feel her holding tightly. Waiting.

I took a deep breath and pushed. I gathered my thoughts. I channeled my sorrows and my joys into my force against the door. My rage and euphoria combined sent me flying into my effort.

Suddenly I made some unexpected gains, and a gap appeared.

I slid my foot in and caught her ankle.

She was off balance. Sliding.

Frightful Night

Eugene here.

The Girl has stepped out to mop up celestial bodies that seemed to have dropped from the heavens and cluttered her balcony.

At first she was desperately kicking at the astronomical objects, however, I trotted over and nudged her into a more delicate approach. It was difficult to see her in such a fitful state, writhing... and tears dripping down into the sparkly mess.  It would seem she lost something in the process, or perhaps she lost it prior... in any event her mood was considerably disturbed by the situation. She kicked and lifted and peered beneath each item, but I warned her to disengage as she held many of them too long and they began to burn her fingers with white-hot heat.

She then grabbed a mop. The mop had intensely sticky strands, so I knew it would be just the fix she needed to soak up all the star juice that had spilled from her eyes along with the unexpected debris of the cosmic event. I told her that when she finished, we would take the mop and toss it into the Volcano of Lamentations, where all of our dearest departed Elder Champions are laid to rest.

Sincerely Yours,

Eugene (Champion Pegasus, Golden Elite Squad)

Funerals

When you are forced to live through the performance... you are made to bear witness to dissolution while it is in progress... all the while hoping it isn't really happening? Cruel.

Eugene is shaking his head with disappointment, whispering admonitions. I should have lowered my expectations long ago. But who could have anticipated this kind of departure??? This... this is sadness at its most dark and vulgar.

And it makes no sense.

Dream

I was with a group of people - diverse. Did not know who they were. We arrived at a compound; there were people working at desks with computers, yet it seemed we were camping along side them. Soon, a phone rang, a screen lit up, and someone said, "Red Alert." Hustle and bustle; workers were shredding their identity cards. I shredded mine too, along with photos. Ethan was with me, even though I had not seen him there earlier and I was surprised, but thankful. I smiled at him, and then listened as the leader of the group (who resembled Patrick Stewart) gave a rousing speech about "doing the right thing when the time came, even if it meant life and death."

We were ushered out of the compound, and we were to be directed to an underground bunker to escape an impending threat. We had to make it to the bunker before dark, however darkness was quickly approaching. One of our group (one of the workers/crew and our would-be guide to the bunker) stopped to yell at congested traffic along the highway. He was transfixed on their still and silent faces, and couldn't be convinced to come with us. He ranted at them about being "stuck" and "doomed" but they did not respond. At that point, Ethan was pulling me along because I was getting distracted from our mission and it was getting dark. The leader shouted directions from afar, but we were in an unfamiliar place. We stumbled through the alleys and cobblestone streets until we arrived at a cemetery with a small group. Then we were rushed into a crypt by the leader and some of his crew - who were fending off large birdlike creatures with red glowing eyes. We ran in, pulled them in behind us after they had killed the creatures, closed the door... and waited silently.

When the threat lifted we were allowed to go back out, but as we emerged a man came up to the group looking for his little girl. He accused our group of harboring a criminal. Suddenly there were clues around us, all that pointed to the father as being complicit in his daughter's disappearance, but no one wanted to accuse him in front of his wife and other children who accompanied him. Instead, the father accused an innocent man in our group, but no one spoke up for this man. I wanted to scream, but no sound came from my throat. I watched as the group turned on the innocent man and pushed him out into the night to meet his fate with his accuser.

I began to wonder if the "Red Alert" had been a ruse to get us all to a small space, and the birdlike creatures a hoax and distraction from the true test - whether we would turn on each other to save ourselves.

When we arrived at the new bunker, there was no food to eat and people were hungry. Soon the leader handed out oranges to the group, but there were not enough for everyone and the leader and those who had helped him pick them were going to go hungry. I gathered up 3 oranges and handed them to the leader and said, "You are the one who worked for these... it isn't fair that you don't eat the fruit of your own labor."

Then I woke up.

Lighthouse

Eugene here.

The Girl has taken to dipping her paintbrush into her wine, so her newest pieces have a burgundy veil draped over them. I am letting her run the scarlet maze for just a little while. So I shall tell you a story.

I was away for a bit; The Girl needed space one night, but that night dragged on in ways only my wings could understand. The only space I know comes by wrapping myself in stars. The space of the ages... the space of golden triumph.

Alas, her heartbeat is deafening when it goes pounding through the Universe, far drowning out my fellow Champions' hooves. Her heart is a drum that shakes their glittering edges, and they always kneel to me and silently urge me to follow her sound.

So I journeyed back to her window and squeezed into the amber light of her studio, where she was dancing alone with my saddle, caressing it with her paint-stained fingertips. We spoke again of the days of olde, when the starlight still created luminous pave-stones for us to gallop along. Suddenly we were family again, separated by nothing. The room dissolved. We went flying.

That reunion of flight spawned a rebirth of our relationship. She told me how she'd recently broken free of her cocoon, and how there would be no more hiding her art away from the world. It was time.

We landed atop a lighthouse, and stared out into the darkness, not able to know where the sea met the sky. She said it didn't matter too much, because I could fly... and she could breathe underwater. Together, we were invincible.

Of Dimes and Dozens

My entire life has been about identity.

Recognizing one. Sustaining one. Not letting one go running off into the shadowy night, never to return. Of tenderly loving one. Viciously protecting one. Keeping one private. Exploding one onto the scene. Letting one evolve without much guidance. Carefully sculpting one.

In all the years I've lived, I never knew how important and incredibly liberating "knowing thyself" would be... until now. Time has passed, songs have played, artwork has been created, careers have come and gone, and memories have overflowed this ornate goblet of my life and saturated every inch of my being with gratitude.

Our identities, so masked by our insecurities as to disfigure them, are precious and constantly morphing... twisting and turning, fitting in everywhere and never fitting anywhere. Who we are, constantly bouncing off of color and light and those we love and those who frighten us into retreat.

Today, I am not sick, but I will be tomorrow. Today, I am generous, but tomorrow I am selfish. Today I am crying, but tomorrow I am rejoicing. Evaporation, condensation, precipitation, accumulation... and it repeats. And our souls are the cycle of the sun. Identity, cradled ever so gently today... will tomorrow be thrust into the space between myself and the stars, and where it is deposited will send quakes through the universe.

I know who I am, because I know who you are. I know it will all go crumbling before it is built again, because I saw you fall apart just before you became the beautiful and powerful being that you are today. I am so proud of you, so proud of me... so proud of how far we have come despite tripping over those ripples as they ricochet off the heavens. We go tumbling in, and gracefully acknowledge the shifting cells as they sparkle and transform.

Goods, Not of the Damaged Sort

Eugene, come home soon. I miss you, and our late night escapes into oblivion. My need of adventure is escalating. Let's fly to that little village that has the antique shop where we once discovered your likeness emblazoned on a leather-bound book. You scoffed at the sight, but I buried it beneath some silk scarves so that we might come back someday and search its pages for an answer to the mystery of our union. The shopkeeper made us tea, remember? Your leaves told of imminent fortune, and I was jealous. My leaves jumped out of the cup and fled the scene.

Come back soon, Eugene. My heart flies with you.